The Three Fates
by bloodstripewife
Summary: All Pansy, Hermione, and Ginny want is for their lives to return to normal following the defeat of Lord Voldemort. Unfortunately, normal is exactly what they won't get when it comes to love. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'... but just how close? They're about to find out. Immediately post-DH. EWE.
1. Chapter 1

"Stay safe now, all of you. I wish to heaven I could hide here 'til it's over, but the time has come when a man must stand for what's right over what's comfortable," their Head of House murmured pensively as he saw the last Slytherin student safely into the Hog's Head. The night was still black as pitch when Professor Slughorn, in his emerald green silk pajamas, took leave with Aberforth.

"Fuckin' Parkinson, out to get us all killed?" Sebastian Daly spat, rounding on her as the door shut behind them.

"Cool it, Daly," Zabini said smoothly, stepping between the large blonde and his target. "She was only saying what the rest of us were thinking. I know for a fact at least a handful of Ravenclaws felt the same way, but you didn't see them sticking _their_ necks out."

"Yeah, because they're not as _stupid_ as our very own Parkinson!" Daly vented, balling his hands into fists.

"Gentlemen! Ladies! Let's not waste time on petty arguments when we have the riches of the Hog's Head at our disposal," a persuasive voice called out from the back. The resourceful sixth year had cracked open liquor from behind the bar and served the group, starting with the most senior. Pansy blindly accepted a tumbler pressed into her hands, and choked down what could only properly be described as dragon's piss. By the time the first years got their share though, the sensation of being held at wandpoint by the entire school had dulled enough for her to go back for a second round.

"What in Merlin's name do you two think you're doing?" Pansy demanded as the freshly topped glass made it halfway to her mouth. The Greengrass sisters had removed a large portrait adjacent to the bar, exposing a yawning hole.

"I heard a rumor that there's a tunnel here connecting to Hogwarts," Astoria explained. "We're going back to fight for the school if we can," she said, hoisting herself into the cavern.

"Are you mad?" Pansy blurted out.

"Look, Pansy—I don't hold it against you for speaking your mind back there in the Great Hall, but we don't all feel the same way," Daphne admitted, gripping Astoria's hand for a lift. "I believe with enough help, the old teachers—Harry Potter—we could lick that noseless bastard once and for all."

Tears pricked her eyes. Was it because this might be the last goodbye? Or was it because she was perilously close to hoping they were right? Pansy gave them a curt nod. "Then get the hell out of here," she whispered, swallowing a lump in her throat. She carefully levitated the portrait back to its proper place. It wouldn't do to have the rest of the house follow suit and get killed.

Quickly she and Zabini came up with a plan to station sixth and seventh years at the doors and portrait hole on rotation, as guards against intruders. Then together they warded the bar counter with every protective spell known between them, and corralled the first and the smallest of the second years behind it.

"You, you, and you," Pansy pointed, picking out the students with top marks in Transfiguration, "See if you can't change these tables and chairs into something more shield-like, and metal," she ordered. Metal reflected spells; wood absorbed them.

She did not want to die. She did _not_ want to die. She didn't survive the worst year Hogwarts had ever seen and Amycus Carrow's disgusting hands on her body only to perish in the crossfire between these two zealous factions. Pansy hoped that no matter which side came banging into the Hog's Head, the remaining students would be offered a truce. And if not… well, she didn't intend to go down without a fight.

Dawn cut a fleshy streak into the horizon, but sleep was the last thing on Pansy's mind. For hours she and what remained of her housemates had cowered to varying degrees in the Hog's Head. Some students sat calmly, whispering to each other. A few others were crying. One had actually fallen asleep, and several pairs were desperately snogging in an attempt to make the most of what could be their final hours. But Pansy paced fruitlessly, as the dingy, vaguely goaty atmosphere only heightened her anxiety.

The world was crumbling around her ears. The tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop for any information outside was maddening. She felt sick thinking about Draco—had he survived? She felt sick thinking about what was going to happen to her once the Dark Lord took over. Perhaps she'd be granted immunity because of her betrothal to Draco—but perhaps not. Her father had turned down an invitation to join the Death Eaters more than once, and Pansy knew firsthand that the Dark Lord was anything but merciful.

She thought of the classmates she had already lost to the Dark Lord's side. Draco. Crabbe. Goyle. Nott… She thought of Professor Slughorn, and of the Greengrass sisters. They all believed they could make a difference in the outcome of this struggle. She wanted to believe one person _could_ tip the scales, but she was so afraid. The truth was if she had to choose a side, she wanted—

With a crack, a diminutive house elf disturbed her train of thought, and hastened over. "You is coming home now with Dinky, miss," the creature said.

"All of us?" Pansy asked as little Ann Speake clutched at Pansy's larger hand.

"Dinky is sorry miss, but Master only sent for Miss Pansy Parkinson."

* * *

"Ron!" Hermione winced, gasping as he plunged into her without preamble. Her blood still sang with the heat of battle coursing through her body, and the neediness of their shared kisses shrouded a certain rawness screaming at the back of her mind. The thrill of flirting with death dulled a panicky uncertainty rising up in her throat as he lunged on, gloriously unaware of anything but the prize between her legs. It was the stiffness of her arms though, preventing him from bending down to put his hot mouth on hers, that made him pause for the first time. She could hear a sharp exhalation through his nostrils and knew even in the dimly illuminated night the parenthesis around his mouth accompanying that sound.

"What is it, 'Mione?" Ron asked in a faraway voice. Now he looked tired. Hollow. Tense. She had a flash of Ron wearing the Horcrux locket around his neck, and emotionally recoiled.

_This is all too fast, _she thought, her heart racing as the enormity of the moment began to sink in. This, her first time. Half undressed in a shambled dormitory, on a bed that didn't belong to either of them, with a boy who only just realized he loved her.

In a rare moment of synchronicity, Ron whispered as if he had heard her and understood. "But we're alive, y'know? We did it. We made it. We're alive while the others—while Fred…" He stopped, unable to continue. She swallowed her objection and searched his sweaty, dust-streaked face as his feeling of loss seeped into her as well.

"Oh, Ron…" she trembled, now clutching him tight.

"Don't you love me, 'Mione?" he pleaded earnestly.

"How could you _even_ question such a thing, Ronald?" she said defensively, tears springing to her eyes.

"Alright, alright! Blimey. I'm a prat, 'Mione. I know you love me," he muttered, lowering his heart on top of her. She could feel him wrinkling, fading smaller inside of her, and tried not to think about it. About any of this.

_So that was it_, she supposed. The pair lay in silence for a few moments while she tried not to struggle under the weight of his ribcage. Eventually, Hermione propped herself up on her elbows and attempted to sit up, wondering what had become of her pants.

"Please—" Ron begged, firmly pressing her back into the mattress. "I've waited—for so long," he said, his voice cracking.

It wasn't quite true, strictly speaking. But the fact that their adrenaline-fueled first kiss had only been just hours before, was easily shelved for a more romantic version of events. Languishing sounded…good. It felt right to hear that in this moment—this twilight of victory and heartache—that she had been wanted for so very long.

"Have you?" she wavered, desperately wanting to salvage this experience. Hermione brought a hand to Ron's forehead, gently combing his hair back with her fingers.

"Oh yes," he said enthusiastically, thrilled that she was warming to the idea. He began to grind his hips into her again to prove the point. And there he was once more, ready to go. Hermione grimaced as Ron pushed and tugged inside her walls, feeling a sensation akin to pinching. "Oh 'Mione—baby!" the boy moaned, grabbing a handful of breast with a wide palm.

Hermione shut her eyes tight and lay back, jiggling rhythmically as she tried to catch on to Ron's apparent enjoyment. But all she could see were flashes of light. All she could hear were the sound of stones tumbling. Lavender's screams as Greyback descended on her. The sickening thud of her professor's body as he hit the boathouse floor.

"Think sexy thoughts," Ron urged in a hoarse whisper.

With an effort, she reached deeper into her mind._ Fourth year, Victor, catching her in the library and running his curved nose down the soft inside of her arm. Planting a kiss where the collar of her shirt dipped down just so. Fifth year, her professor quite alive with warm his hand splayed above her naked chest in the infirmary as he purged Dolohov's souvenir from the Department of Mysteries. Sixth year, she is pushed up against a wall—a pair of dark eyes punishing her, a curtain of black hair obscuring everything but him—_

She gasped slightly and Ron slid deeper with ease.

"Oh baby!" he crooned. "That's the ticket!"

With a bellow, he tensed and collapsed onto her. Hermione lightly stroked his humid back, comforting him in his conspicuous exertion. She sighed deeply, relieving his crushing weight momentarily.

"Ron," she whispered, after a minute ticked silently by, "I can't breathe."

He sleepily nuzzled the crook of her neck and she felt slightly mollified, before heaving him off to the side. They peeled apart unceremoniously, and Ron's soft snoring seemed so absurdly mundane in contrast to this hellish night that Hermione _almost _leaned over to kiss his freckled nose.

Instead she _Evanescoed _herself and the bed, and shook loose her curls from the confines of their ponytail. Girlish fingernails, ragged to the quick and sandwiching bits of blood and grime, massaged her aching scalp before exhaustion dragged her limbs back down to the mattress. She crawled under the sheets-dirty, sweating, and aching-and gratefully buried her childhood. Hermione barely registered Harry hours later, softly wedging himself in the space between her and Ron as daybreak pinked across the Hogwarts grounds.

* * *

"Oh, you're home," her mother said by way of greeting. Pansy stared at the rail-thin figure standing at the top of their sweeping staircase. Times must be serious indeed if Iris Parkinson was willing to step foot outside of her sanctuary in the west wing. "Your father has instructed that no one is to leave the house until further notice," she announced, clutching the opening of her dressing robe to her chest and staring at Pansy pointedly.

Pansy stared back, and decided to hold her tongue. _Right. Lovely to see you, too. Thanks for asking how I survived an assault on the castle! _"Hogwarts is under attack," she said thickly.

"Of course it is, you daft girl. Why else do you think you ended up here at this ungodly hour?"

"Perhaps because_ you _ordered Dinky to fetch me?" Pansy retorted.

"Don't be ridiculous. Your father sent for you, not I," she sniffed.

"Father's not in France?" Pansy asked sharply.

"He has finally come to his senses and returned to prepare for the Dark Lord's ascendency," her mother said triumphantly. Pansy felt distinctly ill and began to climb the stairs to her room. "I warned him this was going to happen," Iris Parkinson continued shrilly, "I told him he should have joined the Dark Lord when he had the chance—but no! He would not listen to me, not even to save our sons!"

_Of course, her sons. It always came back to her sons._ Blood pounded between Pansy's ears furiously, and she rounded on her mother. "And what about me? You feel no outrage on behalf of your _living_ child?"

"What of you, you ungrateful brat? Seem to be holding up just fine, with no regard for the privilege of being under the Carrows' tutelage this year. Shocking that the Dark Lord is finally in control of the school and you have the audacity to complain! If only we could all be so lucky."

"Mother, you pathetic fool," Pansy whispered, as Amycus' putrid breath and sickening leer flashed through her mind, "You have no idea what it's been like, existing under his regime!"

"How _dare_ you speak of His Darkness in that manner," Iris cried, lunging at the back of Pansy's robes in retaliation. A brief struggle ensued and Pansy reached for her wand.

"You will unhand her at once, Iris," a deep voice suddenly commanded.

"Papa?" Pansy stumbled as she was released, and looked out into the foyer.

"Come, Pansy. We have much to discuss," the broad shouldered man ordered icily as he headed to the study. Breathlessly, Pansy ran to meet him. She hadn't seen him since Christmas, and his sudden reappearance at their home meant her world had shifted indubitably—but for better or worse? The sense of desperation that had been steadily creeping into her bones these last several months finally settled and gave way to a grating fear.

Mr. Parkinson threw the heavy drapes of the study open, letting in the budding morning light. Pansy was surprised at how late it was.

"Sit. Eat," he said, waving his hand at a breakfast tray that had been set upon the mahogany desk.

"Please Papa," Pansy begged, "Have you heard any news about Draco?"

"Draco is alive," he confirmed, looking at her intently. Pansy's visible exhalation of gratitude affected her entire body. "But he is no longer your fiancé. Pack up your things, daughter. I'm taking you to France."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm referring to the fanon trope of Snape healing Hermione's Department of Mystery wounds in this story. To read a really excellent version (and my favorite version) of how that blossoms into canon-compliant and angst-filled attraction, please read _Self Slain Gods on Strange Altars_ by scumblackentropy. You can find it in my favorites.

Wow thanks for all those who have started following this story! Remember to follow if you want to be notified when I update. Thanks to my beta Kci47! All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.


	2. Chapter 2

Ron let out a captive breath. "Bloody hell."

"I know. It's mental. I wouldn't believe it either had I not seen it with my own eyes. But it's all there in the Pensieve. You can take a look."

The bright afternoon sun filtered through the paned glass cheerily, as the three sat digesting Harry's revelation about Snape's memories. Hermione had managed to covertly sneak her clothes on before either of the boys arrived at full wakefulness, but they were all still under the sheets. The bed had widened quite nicely to accommodate the trio, and a sense of relief at their miraculous survival indirectly laced their words. The three clung to their little oasis of friendship in that borrowed bed, hashing out the night's events between them before facing the inevitable ruin beyond the evacuated Gryffindor dorm.

"I dunno what's more shocking; that Snape was on our side after all, or that he fancied a woman?" Ron wondered with a faint smirk. "Your mum must have been a dime piece if she made that old bat turn his head," he elbowed Harry mischievously. Harry gave what was left of Ron's diminishing love handles a good hard pinch before turning to Hermione.

"Come now, I just revealed the secret of the ages and even got Ron asking questions—but you haven't piped up once," he said. "What gives?"

"Nothing. I just find it all rather incredible, that's all," she replied in a small voice, picking at the woolen coverlet.

Harry looked at her strangely. "You don't believe me."

"Honestly Harry!" Hermione huffed, pushing her wild hair out of her face. "Of course I believe you! It's just that—well, after all Professor Snape's done—after all he's put us through? Now we're supposed to _mourn_ him?"

"Hermione, all those years we were in school _you_ were the one that fought hardest for us to respect him, to believe that he was on our side."

"Yes, well even I make mistakes," she said ruefully, wrapping her arms around herself. "But I stopped kidding myself the day Dumbledore was murdered."

Harry took her hands gently in his. "You can't blame yourself anymore for letting him go that night, especially now that we know how it ended. You did not make a mistake. You saw what no one else but Dumbledore, did. And now the rest of us know the truth too."

"But if you had seen him just before he got to the tower-" Hermione shuddered, becoming lost in her thoughts.

_He barked orders for her and Luna to assist Professor Flitwick in the next room._

_Immediately, she turned to follow the girl. Then for a heartbeat, she paused. Something wasn't right. She didn't know what possessed her to do so, but she reached out and grabbed his sleeve as he swooped past. _

_In half a breath she was twisted round, back jammed against the wall. He pinned her wand hand with one of his above her head, and pressed her other arm into the stone behind her. Her air came in short gulps and he bored his eyes into hers. Her body tingled. A smoldering heat ripped through her insides when his forehead nearly touched her own. Hermione knew instinctively that he was emanating dark magic. She could feel it spilling over into her like the tendrils of fog uncurling over a block of ice, and she was riveted. _

"_Please, sir-" she began in a whisper. "You don't have to do this." The words slipped from her tongue without knowing why, and her cheeks flushed at the way she begged. Was it for herself, or someone else? _

_One hand released the crushing grip on her shoulder and encircled her throat instead. His hands this time felt so different from when he healed her wounds gained at the Department of Mysteries… what had she been thinking? Her flesh burned beneath his cool fingers, and she felt her pulse wildly leap into his palm. She gripped his wrist as she tried to pry him away._

"_Don't try and 'save' me, Granger," he sneered, tossing her aside. "You know pathetic little, as ever."_

"_Professor!" She tried again, calling after the darkness._

The entire encounter only lasted a few moments, but it was branded into her like the scar on her chest. Like the words on her arm. It was a tape that rewound itself every night and replayed on the backs of her eyelids. She spent months over and over again trying to figure out what she could have done differently to change the course of events. If only she had said this, or did that—perhaps Dumbledore would have lived. Perhaps Voldemort could have been thwarted sooner. Perhaps fewer people would have died.

She had felt so guilty and responsible since then, thinking she had let slip a chance to affect change in the tide of battle. And now she was told it was all part of the Master Plan. Just accept that her instincts had been wrong. She knew she should be relieved to no longer feel culpability, but then, why had she felt such strong dark magic from Snape?

Their next encounter had also been the last. There he laid, blood pooling from his punctured neck on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. She cast a stasis charm on him just before she slipped out behind the boys—the one he taught her to use in potions when they had to step away from their cauldrons. She had no idea if it would work on humans.

Like that night in the corridor, she wasn't sure why she meddled again. Maybe she couldn't bring herself to admit after looking into his fading eyes that he had truly been their enemy all this time. Or just maybe she did it because she felt he didn't deserve the peace of death.

* * *

Pansy selected a rose colored dress from the wardrobe her father had provided and prepared for dinner anxiously. For a week she had been shut up in this apartment with no company other than her chatty mirror, but tonight she was going outside at last to join the Parkinson patriarch for dinner.

He had left explicit instructions that she was not to apparate or contact anyone until he gave permission. Pansy had yet to succeed at either, but not for lack of trying. The wards prevented her from leaving, and even an attempted bribe with the well-tailored guards stationed on either end of her floor came to naught. She was desperate for news about Draco, and hoped that her father's shocking proclamation regarding the dissolution of their betrothal was some kind of mistake that had now been put to right.

"Gardiner Parkinson," Pansy said to the maître d' of Le Bon Plat.

She felt a swell of pride as she was led to her father among the sea of diners. He appeared so handsome in his Muggle style slacks and jacket, carelessly open at the throat, and youthful looking without the restraint of a tie.

"Must you insist on wearing pink?" Gardiner sighed as she reached his table. He cast a critical eye over her choice of dress. "Green suits you so much better, even if you insist on sporting those raccoon eyes."

"I wear green every day at school, Papa," she told him, sliding into the quilted leather booth and ignoring his swipe at her usual heavy makeup. "And besides, this dress was among the things _you_ gave me."

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the table. Pansy took a sip of the wine already placed before her and looked around the lamp-lit establishment anxiously.

"How are you settling in, then? Everything to your satisfaction?" Gardiner inquired coolly as soup arrived. Pansy nodded, but her attention had turned to the bustle of the restaurant. She was astonished to realize that each dish had to be hand carried to the customer.

"You haven't had much experience outside of the Wizarding World," Gardiner stated, noting her fascination with the wait staff, "But now is the opportunity to learn. Living among Muggles—as distasteful as it may seem—can be a useful skill. Particularly in times like these."

The color drained from Pansy's face as her eyes riveted back to her father's. "But I thought you said that Lord Voldemort was defeated… why then are we hiding? Is this because you returned to join him?"

"Now wherever did you obtain that absurd notion?" Gardiner asked, raising a dark brow.

"It's what Mother said," Pansy admitted, realizing her error as the words fell out of her mouth.

"I thought you had more common sense than to permit your mother's latest passions regarding Lord Voldemort to go to your head," he tutted disapprovingly. "How many times have I reminded you that backing fanatical political figures only leads to poor business conditions?"

Pansy nodded, but felt he didn't quite appreciate just how close they had come to capitulating entirely into Voldemort's hands. Despite his many lectures regarding the priority of their family business, she reasoned that her father very well _could_ have changed his mind had he experienced the distress she did.

"The Dark Lord has been vanquished, we can be certain of that now. But it's the living we have to worry about, which is why you have been sequestered. The feeling against Voldemort and his proponents has reached a fever pitch, and _you_ unfortunately have been marked as one of his supporters."

"Me?" she gasped, "But I never took the Mark!"

"No matter; the public is on a Voldemort sympathizer 'witch hunt' for lack of a better phrase—and you have several strikes in the wrong tally column. Pureblood, betrothal to a Malfoy, Slytherin heritage, membership on Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad in addition to favor with the Carrows, and of course—your damning outburst at the crux of the battle where you wisely suggested the Chosen One be _sacrificed_ to save your own skin," he sneered.

"But Papa," she argued, "It wasn't just _my_ skin—it was everyone else's too! It was life or death! You should have been there and seen-"

Gardiner held up his hand. "Despite the clumsy handling on your part, I do acknowledge its pragmatic essence. However, the unfortunate fact remains that your declaration happened to be exactly the wrong thing to say publicly, given the outcome of the war. The eye of scrutiny has now been turned upon our name, and _that_ is what I'm displeased with."

Pansy pouted, pushing her lobster bisque around its bowl as her father continued.

"Already the Prophet has run a firsthand account identifying you as the instigator of Slytherin House's controversial expulsion. It's only one line, but soon the owls will come flooding in on the hunt for additional details. We will not be responding to those inquires beyond an official statement put out by our lawyer, of course, but sooner or later others are going to come forward with their own unflattering version of events, " he said disapprovingly.

"Then why not let me give my own interview? We could let Rita Skeeter write it—she likes me. Described me as 'pretty and vivacious' in the last piece we did together," Pansy suggested with a toss of her dark bob.

"Ah yes Daughter, I forget how very charming and persuasive you can be. Surely that will turn the tables," Gardiner said dryly.

Pansy beamed.

"The answer is no—especially not by that Skeeter woman. We don't need to jeopardize our position any further. Your former fiancé has done enough of that even without your blunder."

"How is Draco doing?" Pansy asked, taking pains not to sound too eager and hoping she misheard the state of their engagement.

"The entire Malfoy family has been taken into custody for questioning."

"Even Narcissa?"

Gardiner nodded. "I imagine she'll be released shortly. But I expect you to understand that this betrothal between families no longer contributes to advancing our position, and has therefore been revoked."

There it was—'revoked'. Pansy's heart hammered miserably in her chest as she watched her father calmly cut into the coq au vin set before them. She struggled not to register agony on her face.

"The Malfoys are in the bowels of social disgrace without sign of recovery," he continued smoothly. "In this political climate we simply cannot afford to be publicly aligned with such close supporters of our world's latest villain."

"Well, you didn't seem to be so bothered by their ties when Lord Voldemort was on the rise," Pansy bristled.

"Of course not. Lucius and his son were useful to us then," he said as though it were patently obvious. "Just because _I_ didn't want to pledge allegiance to a madman doesn't mean I can't leverage benefits from those who do—and you'd be wise to remember the same."

Somewhere in a corner of her brain Pansy supposed her father was right, but it did nothing to quell the lump rising in her throat.

"And what now?" she asked, struggling to tame her frustration. "I'm to stay here for all eternity? With no friends, no fiancé and hardly any language? French was never my strong point; I can barely get by as is."

"You're living here where I can keep an eye on you until this bad press dies down. The less you interact with the Wizarding World at the moment, the better. Magic is permitted within your quarters, of course, but you'd do well to blend in on the outside while living in Paris," he advised.

"So my owl will be returned to me?" she asked carefully.

"Hootaninny will be delivered this evening. Keep in mind though that all of young Master Malfoy's correspondence is under surveillance. Do try not to commit to parchment anything either of us will regret," he said, eyeing her shrewdly.

"Anything else?" Pansy asked, annoyance creeping into her voice.

"Why, yes; you will from this point on refrain from wearing your hair short, in addition to easing up on the sweets. We need you in top form for your return to the marriage market."

* * *

Ginny fished a gold anklet out of her jewelry box and put it on tenderly. She had selected it in Egypt as a memento of her family's trip six years ago; the tiny pomegranate that threaded the center was charmed to bring prosperity and good fortune, the merchant had told her. Ginny certainly needed some of that after her hellish introductory year at Hogwarts, and happily brought it home. For the rest of the summer it glinted above her heel, and she felt curiously alive and free.

All that changed though, the day she met Professor Lupin. He was brilliant of course, saving them from the Dementors on the Hogwarts Express. But the Egyptian charm had not been strong enough to shield her from Tom's invasive return as he penetrated her mind with the aid of those rotting specters. She removed the anklet that night, angry at its failure.

In the end it amounted to nothing more than another useless souvenir, like Ron's sneak-o-scope, and lay forgotten among her other abandoned pieces of jewelry. But today was yet another funeral—Lupin's funeral—and she was entitled to a bit of sentimentality. The charm represented the last link she had to her gentle professor. Perhaps the pomegranate couldn't protect her from Tom, but it had brought Remus Lupin into her life when she wore it, and that was something.

Ginny sighed reluctantly. This day had been delayed on account of several of Lupin's werewolf associates needing time to transform and recover, but at last it could be put off no longer. Of course it was not simply Professor Lupin they were remembering. The honor belonged to Tonks equally. Ginny's pain for the woman she had come to regard as a sister was great. She knew it was. And yet weeks of mourning the young Auror and others left her with no tears to spare and only a white-hot numbness in her heart.

_Tonks would think this whole thing stupid_, Ginny thought defiantly as she slipped into her somber, faded black dress for the fourth (or was it the fifth?) time that month. _Tonks would have preferred a lively party. Preferably one involving lots of Firewhisky and brightly colored decorations. _Ginny smiled slightly at the idea, and turned to her mirror.

Carefully she transfigured her unadorned hair to grow several inches. Then she altered its shade, abandoning the carrot tones and zooming straight into tomato red. Tonks had frequented that hue and length when she wasn't sporting bubblegum pink, and liked to quip that she and Ginny were 'sisters from another mister' when coiffed that way.

Ginny raised her wand to her nose and hesitated. Should she also duplicate Tonks' signature joke snout? Ginny knew she was a dab hand at Transfiguration but body parts were notoriously tricky-

A tentative knock on the door interrupted her concentration and Hermione entered, looking perfectly ladylike with a string of pearls around her neck and her hair tamed into a sleek twist.

"Oh!" she started with a glance at Ginny's vibrant appearance. "You look really… that is to say… Er—your mother needs your assistance in the kitchen," she finished lamely. Ginny wordlessly flounced out of the room with her original nose.

"Really Ginevera," Molly said with raised brows as she glanced at her daughter's dramatically enhanced locks, "Hardly the time to be drawing attention to yourself, I think."

"Where are the potholders, Mum?" Ginny asked loudly, rummaging through the cupboards.

"Ten minutes to make the port-key dear," Arthur announced, smelling clean and damp as he ran a comb through his thinning hair.

"Yes, yes of course," Molly breathed hurriedly as she charmed a whisk to beat cream into fluffy peaks. Ginny levitated a hot casserole from the oven and set it on the table with a cushioning spell. "Put it in the basket and make room for the others," Molly instructed, pulling off her apron as she bustled to check on a second crock.

"I've got it Mum," Ginny insisted, taking the lid out of her hand. "You go finish up." Molly absentmindedly patted her still rolled hair and padded off to the washroom.

"Ron, while I have you here making yourself so useful," Ginny began in a falsely sweet tone, "Could you please spoon out the whipped cream onto the pastries?" Her lanky brother paused as a second helping of the fluff made its way to his mouth.

"The chocolate cream puffs are in the pie-safe, and if I discover even one of them is missing, I know a clever little hex that will turn your todger into spotted dick—and not the one cooling on the counter."

By the time the family made their way to the antiquated churchyard, Ginny was grateful for the gentle breeze glancing across her lightly perspiring skin. Immediately she sought out Harry in the throng of mourners; he had left the Burrow by broom hours earlier, needing to clear his head.

"Your hair looks lovely," Harry whispered with a sad smile as she tucked herself into his side. "Reminds me of Tonks." She squeezed his hand gratefully and prayed she didn't smell too much like the fish stew she had spilled minutes earlier.

Of course it had rained on the day they buried Fred—the very antithesis of how his spirit had been in life. And now as they lay to rest these two new parents, the sun shone mercilessly and songbirds chirped, oblivious to the tearful goodbye playing out beneath them. Ginny badly wanted to bat-bogey hex the creatures into the next beyond as they competed with the eulogy, but she could feel her mother shrewdly eyeing her wand hand.

Then her mind wandered. Yes, she admitted it. She refused to focus on the wretchedness of Tonks and Lupin's earthly bodies settling into a dark hole, as if tiny Teddy crying in the background on this beautiful sunny day wasn't jarring enough.

She scanned the small crowd, and was surprised to note that she knew quite a bit of the group. There were a few she couldn't recognize; one or two young people who may have been Tonk's classmates, a shabby knot off to the back she assumed were Lupin's lycanthropy comrades, and an elegant woman in a mourning veil standing beside Andromeda Tonks.

Her stomach rumbled indelicately and she hoped it wasn't too terrible of her to be looking forward to the informal potluck lunch following at the Tonks' home. More of the couple's friends and colleagues would be there, and away from the invasive light and noise of wizarding paparazzi lined up at a just-barely-respectful distance from the gravesite.

At last it was over, and mourners began to pay their respects to Andromeda. Ginny watched as the shrouded woman beside her lifted her hat net to embrace the grieving mother, and was startled to recognize Narcissa Malfoy.

She didn't even notice that Harry had left her side as he fell into conversation with other attendees. Transfixed, she watched the woman quickly leave the gathering soon after and stand off to the side for several moments, alone. In the distance several photogs deployed their flash and jockeyed for position. Narcissa appeared to bring a handkerchief to her face. Ginny recoiled at the obvious stunt, and strode over.

"Move over to the left a bit, why don't you? All the more sunlight to get that perfect shot for tomorrow's papers," Ginny said ruthlessly to the statuesque blonde.

"Ginevra Weasley. How lovely to see you—as always," Narcissa Malfoy responded, the perfect picture of decorum. Ginny's blood boiled at the woman's composure.

"Rich of you to show up here when your own husband and sister were the very ones firing lethal spells at—"

"Andromeda is my sister too," Narcissa said quietly, but with feeling. "And in great pain at present. I pray you never know what it's like to lose, or almost lose a child. _If_ you'll excuse me-" her last words slipped out tremulously and she hurried after what appeared to be a bodyguard dressed in black, waiting several paces beyond.

_Slick, those Malfoys_, Ginny thought angrily. She almost felt guilty for the way she approached Narcissa. Almost.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to my beta Kci47! If you think you'd be interested in an AU Snape/Hermione romance involving Snape as a pirate, be sure to check out her work in progress, _Captured_! I am also looking for a Brit-picking beta for improving dialogue, so if that's your strength feel free to drop me a line.

Thank you to those who have put this story on Alert! I love checking out your profiles and other favorite fics.

Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling!


End file.
